


Effective Immediately

by kvella



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cullen's dog is also Josephine's dog, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, F/M, Fluff, I hope it's not as sappy as the tags make it seem, Inquisition disbands, Marriage Proposal, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Unplanned Pregnancy, but it's a good thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 08:07:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24966460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kvella/pseuds/kvella
Summary: The Inquisition comes to an end; Cullen and Josephine consider where they go from here.
Relationships: Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Josephine Montilyet & Cullen Rutherford, Josephine Montilyet/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 14
Kudos: 27





	Effective Immediately

As a week of intense carnage comes to a close, the Inquisition packs up and departs the cultivated majesty of Halamshiral for their modest home, Skyhold. The trip is only two days, but the ride is rough.

Hail the size of hay pennies batters down on the party as they exit the highways of Emprise du Lion and make their way into the craggy Frostback Mountains. Josephine’s body aches, a deep fatigue the size of a boulder she has desperately rolled down the road for years. She rolls her neck, trying to find relief. As her mare slowly treks up the steep hill, she finds her mind wandering in anguish through the events of the Exalted Council for the countless time. Each crossroad moment floats unconnected in the abyss of her mind as she tries to rope them into a bundle she can make sense of. She puzzles how she could have been more effective, how she could have more staunchly steered the ship.

To most in Thedas, the Inquisition mission is a success. There is bloodshed, but the invading Qunari are halted. The arduous meeting with the Exalted Council concludes with a plan that momentarily satiates both Orlais and Ferelden’s desire to keep a lesser power in check.

From a diplomat’s watchful eye, the mission is an utter disaster. The news revealing an old ally to be a long-vengeful Elven god set on destroying the world as known is hardly the most remarkable event of the week-long ordeal. Years of Josephine’s painstaking negotiations and carefully crafted alliances crumble and fall in the Inquisitor’s utterance of a single sentence.

Beyond the inclement weather, there is an unmistakably bitter mood across the riding party. More than once, idle chatter to pass the time devolves into a war of words between the Inquisitor and the Commander. Each time the Lady Ambassador steps in to play peacemaker, though she grows weary and impatient with their incredible lack of decorum in front of the honor guard.

Dejectedly, she eyes the Commander’s back, the thick fur of his mantle bouncing gently with each step of his horse. The sting of their arguments over the darker happenings at Halamshiral still lingers. Lids heavy with remorse, she casts her eyes down to her mare’s smooth neck. For days, she and Cullen have hardly had a moment to catch each other’s eye, let alone the opportunity to reconcile or commiserate on the sorry state of the Inquisition.

***

When they arrive, rumors have already spread like wildfire throughout Skyhold. A meeting is called for later and that evening representatives from each branch of the Inquisition anxiously line the War Room. The Inquisitor speaks and they hang on her every word, hearing their futures with the organization laid to rest. The news will be delivered to the remainder of the keep at a ceremony in three days' time. The meeting is a tight 15 minutes, though for Josephine it feels like a year. She shuffles out of the War Room with the rest of the whiplashed attendees, catching snippets of shocked whispering here and there. Picking up her quill with the good intentions of getting to work, she settles in at her desk and the Mabari hound Cullen brought home from Halamshiral wanders over to lay sleepily at her feet. She has named him Cecil, to Cullen’s disapproval. She absentmindedly scratches his velvety ear as she listens intently to try to pick up the dispute in the hallway.

The raised voices and sharp tones bounce through the hall and she focuses her attention on the hound, pretending not to listen as the arguing grows nearer. The hound raises his head, alerted, as the door to her office is practically slammed open. The Inquisitor storms out of Josephine’s office with a dismissive flourish of her hand and moments later Cullen heaves himself through the door. Stopping in his tracks, he dramatically drags a hand down his face, not bothering to hide his obvious aggravation. He eyes her with a sour look from behind his hand.

“Disbanded! Can you believe her? Now, when Solas is gathering forces to destroy life as we know it? This is a dreadful mistake.” He stares at her incredulously, clearly waiting for a similarly outraged response. Instead, she curtly replies, “Let’s take a walk,” and heads towards the door. The Mabari groans, stretches, and follows suit.

Cullen trails behind Josephine, his indignation flowing off of him in waves that threaten to crash on anyone who might have the misfortune to speak to him. He silences himself as they walk through the Great Hall - the announcement has still not been made to the rest of Skyhold - but several people eye them curiously as they walk between the tables. She leads the way, passing Varric at the hearth. He looks at her sympathetically and she responds with a slightly frazzled raise of her eyebrows as if to say, “oh, this mood emanating off our Commander? Yes, yes, I’ve got it handled.”

She takes the most direct route to Cullen’s office and pushes open the door to where the library has encroached on Solas’s abandoned study. Numerous shelves bend under the weight of dusty old tomes, but the murals that stain the masonry of the walls peeks out at the tops. As soon as the door is shut, Cullen starts up again, seeming to forget that the sound from this space echoes up the tower. A loud “SHHH” chastises him from the upper library.

Exasperated, he moves closer into her space, the toes of their boots nearly touching. He makes a sorry attempt at a whisper, voice amplifying as he speaks each word. “Josephine, we need to make a show of force, not slink into the shadows!”

“Darling.” Josephine starts as gently as she can, pulling on years of diplomacy and encounters with hotter heads than him. “I know this is not what you want to hear, but the Inquisitor is right. Corpypheus is long-dead, order has been restored. We have helped right wrongs throughout Thedas and give comfort to the people so they can sleep soundly at night. Can you not say that we have fulfilled the mission we set out to accomplish?”

Cullen dips his head low, hands set stiffly on his hips as he considers her question intently. Cecil nudges his thigh, and Cullen crouches to scratch under the hound’s smooth chin, brow still furrowed in contemplation.

“This is an opportunity,” she continues, lowering her voice further, “While the Inquisition as we know it will not exist, we know the threat Solas presents to our world. We will continue to work against him in the shadows, outside of the purview of Orlais and Ferelden, and use the freedom from nations to our advantage.”

While she lets her words percolate, Josephine regards the murals adorning the tower, searching the visible parts for hidden meanings. “I admired him and his dedication to his work, but I never could shake the strange hollow feeling he left me with.” Cullen stares blankly at the murals, wondering why after two years no one has bothered to cover the blasted things up. “Come,” she says, motioning towards the door to the battlements.

The season is turning and crisp air hits them as they step out into the afternoon. She stops in the middle of the battlement leading to Cullen’s office, folding herself onto the edge. The keep bustles below them: trees of copper and gold shading soldiers practicing in the courtyard, merchants selling their wares, and the grassy smell of the stables wafts up through the air. The cool breeze is tempered by the strength of the sun at her back. They stand side by side, quiet and still, an unresolved tension like taut lute strings between them.

Cullen breaks the silence, palming the back of his neck awkwardly. “I am sorry. Back at Halamshiral, I did not mean to diminish the hard work you did--”

“It’s fine,” she counters bluntly with her spine rigid, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the sparring soldiers down below. “It was a difficult situation; you and the Divine were only doing what you thought was best to conceal the threats before things got even further out of hand. It is not within my purview to tell you how to use your resources.”

“Be that as it may, you were right. Perhaps covering up the Qunari body only sealed the fate of the Inquisition.” He exhales loudly as if willing the frustration out of his body to sculpt a more sincere apology. “As you know, politics are not...well, they’re not where my patience lies. You were right.”

Her body relaxes, and she shakes her head softly. “Thank you.”

Cullen takes this as encouragement, edges towards her. “What you do is important.”

She cocks her head and looks at him out of the corner of her eye, a satisfied look just bordering on a smirk gracing her face. “Charmer.”

Amused, he closes the gap between them, turning her to face him with a firm grasp on her hip. His arms snake around her, pinning her lightly against the battlement wall. He nuzzles his head into the crook of her satin-lined neck, breathes her in. The rough stone against her back and the weight of him on her is grounding. She is grateful for both the affection and his humble concession. Her hand coils up his back and settles at the nape of his neck, stoking her fingers through his hair warmly for a moment.

Suddenly, she pulls back and looks him square in the eye. “Everything is about to change.” Her tone is serious, but there is a glimmer of curious anticipation in her eye.

“Yes.”

“Perhaps it really is for the best.”

“Perhaps.”

She tiptoes up and presses a gentle kiss to his cheek and one to his lips, then removes herself from the protection of his arms and returns to her work.

***

Carastian candles burn low, wax pooling on their tray. Rain patters against the custom made glass Inquisition windows. The day winds down and the evening meal passes without much fanfare. The chatter and noise outside quiets as people turn in for the night. Tired to the bone after what she can honestly say has been one of the longest weeks of her life, Josephine heads to their quarters to steal away a rare opportunity for solitude. Finally, time to catch up on her reading. There is so much work to do - an entire organization to unravel, thousands of workers and soldiers to help find placements for - but it can wait until tomorrow.

A silken nightgown, a pot of tea, and a plush armchair are all she needs tonight. She removes the pins from her hair, glossy charcoal curls falling low on her back, and folds herself into her spot by the fireplace reading the first of three chapters she is behind on from Varric’s new novel, ONCE MORE UNTO THE BREACH. A mere few pages have gone by when the heavy door cracks and a breeze blows past her, the scent of smoke and petrichor on the soggy autumn air. Cullen steps in, his head low and shoulders defeated from his evening meeting with the Inquisitor. Cecil trails behind him, reflecting Cullen’s dour mood. Josephine conceals an amused smile at the pathetic pup’s attempt at comfort.

Cullen shuts the door and catches her eye, a softness reserved for her gracing his rugged face. “Hello.”

“Hello, my love,” Josephine smiles warmly at him, then looks back at her book. Cecil curls up at her feet as Cullen begins to rack his armor.

When he is down to a light gambeson and trousers, he thumps himself indelicately on the bed, an arm covering his eyes as he sinks in. She listens to his breathing - intentional, Templar-trained - as she rereads the same page again. She will let him come to her. Two more pages pass before he speaks.

“I have missed you,” Cullen says, peeking over at her fondly from below his arm. They have not spent a night together in weeks - schedules adjusting for visiting dignitaries, separate quarters during the time at Halamshiral for propriety’s sake, and a few nights of Cullen falling asleep at his desk long after Josephine’s candles burned out.

“You saw me this afternoon,” she teases, though she knows his meaning. She sets her book aside and ambles toward him. Languidly, she drapes herself over him, breast to breast, toes dangling off the bed. “Are you feeling quite well?”

“A headache. Could be worse. It will pass.” She brushes the back of her hand across his forehead and down his stubbly cheek. This man has fought unnamed horrors, has felt the backstabbing blade from an order he thought to be true, watched a city he served crumble under the weight of it all. Her heart swells with pride thinking of his years-long dedication to staying clear of lyrium and how he has helped countless others through their addiction and out the other side. He even dueled for her favor against a rather snotty Antivan lord, some years ago. This man. A good man. She runs a finger down his scar, resting her finger on his marred lip.

They hold each other for a while, content to bask in the quiet stormy night.

“So,” Cullen mumbles into her hair, “What’s next?”

Josephine lifts her head from his chest just so, propping herself up on her arm coquettishly. Her eyes are narrow, sultry. “Well, Commander, you could remove your shirt and I, my blouse, and we can see where it goes from there?”

Cullen smirks but, with a hint of regret, stays on target. “No,” he says roughly. “I mean...what’s next?” He gestures broadly at the room. “If we’re disbanding, we probably shouldn’t stay here. I don’t think just you and I could manage an entire castle on our own.”

Feigning a pout, she gives a little huff and sits up. She has admittedly avoided questions of the future, mostly out of fear. She has always planned to return to Antiva if the Inquisition ever came to an end, to return to her family and their business and the warm, sandy beaches. Cullen rarely speaks of the future. He takes things day by day, managing his troops, his responsibilities, and his pain. They are happy together, and for a time, the avoidance seemed to serve them.

“Well, that’s very true. Where would you wish to go?” It irks him, but he pretends not to notice how she turns his question back on him, always playing The Game in one way or another.

“Hm. Well, I should probably see my siblings. Mia and Branson are still in Honnleath, but Rosalie is in Denerim last I heard.”

“Denerim is beautiful this time of year,” Josephine nods genially. “So is Antiva City.”

“Yes,” Cullen slowly says, the word rolling out of his mouth like molasses. “So I’ve heard, though on the whole Fereldens don’t do particularly well in the heat. Still, I should like to see it someday.” She holds her tongue. His enthusiasm seems weak, at best. The Mabari snores softly at the foot of the bed. She shifts the topic.

“What will you do with all your new found freedom? Peacetime for a commander of war means unparalleled time and energy at the ready!”

Cullen is thoughtful, suddenly more reserved. “I have given it some thought, though I would like your guidance. You’ve a much better mind for administration than I do.” His tone is sincere and he pauses to consider each of his words carefully. “I want to open a sanctuary. For templars who want to live without lyrium, or have already lost their minds to it. A place for them to get care and share their experience with their own. Or die with comrades by their side.” He trails off, the sliding doors of his life flashing through his eyes. “I’ve thought about it for a while, even reached out to some physicians and people who have gone off lyrium before, but I don’t know where I’d find the land or coin for such a venture.”

A faint sniff threads through his ears. He lifts his gaze and Josephine is surreptitiously hiding her glistening eyes. “Do continue,” she chastises, batting at his arm gently. _This good, good man,_ she thinks.

“I’m done,” he laughs, shrinking uncomfortably under her emotions over the idea he is voicing out loud for the first time.

“Cullen,” she sighs wistfully, “That is...a beautiful, noble dream. I believe you must do it.”

He sits up, grasps her hands in his, a fervor coming over him. “I want your help. The logistics alone make a sanctuary difficult at best, and I know no one else who can do what you do.”

Conflict marrs her features, and she responds cautiously. “I would like to say yes, Cullen.”

“But?”

“There is so much going on, we both have so many responsibilities.”

“Well, I’m not saying we find a piece of land and invite hundreds of lyrium-sick Templars onto it tomorrow,” he scoffs.

“There are thousands of Inquisition workers to place, so many loose ends to tie up. Who knows how long that might take? Not to mention,” she throws her hands up, seeming to become overwhelmed by the growing list. “I am to be head of my family, my brothers have nearly rebuilt the fleet and my parents expect-”

He listens to her spiral, laughs fondly to himself. He can’t help himself, the words simply spill out of him. “Marry me.”

His steady voice breaks through her list of excuses. “-so much...what?” Josephine is nearly speechless, a rare occasion.

“I- ah, well, I had a whole plan, but the moment -” he panics and cuts himself off, rubs the back of his neck to sooth his discomfort. Gathering his composure, he straightens and looks her in the eye, the picture of sincerity and determination.

“Did you just-”

“Josie, I love you.” He is so earnest, she feels as if he clutches her heart in his hand. “I want you. I want your family. I want to face whatever madness this world may bring us together.”

Eyes wide and mouth agape, Josephine scans wildly around the room, trying to find anything to settle on that might still the wheels in her head from turning. “I - did you not just hear what I said about responsibility? You will not lose me simply because the Inquisition is disbanding, so if this is an effort towards that, it is unnecessary.” She closes her eyes and gives a little shake of her head as if to clear clouds around it. When she opens them, they are uncertain, almost shy. “Do you...really mean it? ”

“Very much,” he says solemnly, the tone of a reverent prayer to Andraste.

Her anxiety dissolves and elation replaces it. Still, she holds back. More questions, as always. “But...where will we go? Your life is in Ferelden, mine in Antiva.”

“Perhaps the sanctuary may be in Ferelden, but the journey by ship is not so terribly long, we will find a way to split our time. I imagine the warm breezes of Antiva could even be good for a recovering Templar.” He shrugs as if this is the most obvious and easy issue to solve.

“Cullen, you hate sailing,” she points out quizzically, still trying to piece together how this could possibly work.

He grins impishly at her. “Yes, but I am to marry the head of a house known for their ways of the sea. I shall simply learn to stomach it.”

“You would live in Antiva?” Everything he says seems too good to be true, she thinks to herself, attempting to poke holes in the promises he makes. But she must remind herself, this is not The Grand Game. Why would she run from his offer of happiness? Cullen has no ulterior motive, no political incentive to wed. Perhaps he is not the most strategic of noble marriages, but, Josephine the Romantic reasons, the heart wants what it wants. He offers nothing but his golden heart and steady hand.

He chuckles lovingly at her atypical silliness. “I would live anywhere if you were by my side. Even Antiva. So...is that a--”

Why would she deign to consider any other future than one with him? Confident in her choice, she springs forward, kisses him assuredly, square on the mouth, tackling him back against the downy pillows. “Yes.”

Late in the night, when the humble fireplace nurses a scattered few glowing embers, Cullen feels Josephine’s breath even out against his back; her hands around his chest relax. He lays there for a while, thinking about this future they will craft together. The details are hazy, but he is uncannily certain that regardless of the open field in front of them, their paths are intertwined. Only a short few hours remain before the announcement of the Inquisition’s dissolution will be made. Only a short few hours before everything changes. With a sigh that resides somewhere in the blur between bliss and weariness, he closes his eyes and finally drifts off to sleep.

***

The fog in the meadows around Skyhold is illuminated by the rising of the sun. Golden rays peek through the crack in the heavy Orlesian damask curtains, birds are chirping their merry tunes. The gentle peace of the small morning hours is interrupted by a sudden weight on the bed and a massive paw wheedling its way between them. Not bothering to pick her head up, Josephine cracks one eye open to find exactly what she expected - Cecil towering over them. His big golden eyes examine her gingerly - he is not allowed in their bed - but she cannot blame the Mabari for wanting to be close to Cullen. She, too, would prefer to stay permanently attached to his side. With an exasperated quirk of her lips and a hint of an eye roll, Josephine untangles herself from Cullen and scoots over, making room for Cecil to haphazardly squeeze in between them.

The shifting chaos of the bed stirs Cullen and he groggily turns over, met with Cecil’s sharp grin and a thick tongue slobbering on his cheek. “Yes, yes, good morning, Pup,” he mutters, rubbing his hand on the Mabari’s smooth head.

“And good morning to you, my love,” Josephine sweetly murmurs, poking her mussed head up over the giant Mabari’s back.

They curl up, playing with Cecil for another quarter hour before Josephine decides it’s time for them to rise and greet the day. Not quite ready to remove himself from comfort or face the drama of today’s announcement, Cullen stays in bed for a moment. He absently scratches behind Cecil’s ears and watches as she disrobes, humming and thoughtfully picking through the lotions and potions on her vanity. She is absolutely radiant, warmly backlit by the sun coming through the large window. His eyebrow quirks - she looks different somehow. His eyes trace her figure, considering what it is that may have changed. _Lovely,_ he thinks, sweeping his eyes over her face and soft, round shoulders. Her hips and breasts do seem rather more full - he is interrupted once again by Cecil pawing at him. Mildly irritated, he pulls himself out of bed and begins his morning routine.

***

It is mid-afternoon and the keep is packed shoulder to shoulder with members of the Inquisition anxiously awaiting the announcement. Cullen and Josephine, the remaining advisors, stand on the landing, trying not to mirror the energy of the crowd as they wait for the Inquisitor to make her appearance. She thinks of Leliana, the Divine Victoria away in Val Royeaux, and gloomily wishes she were here. Her absence from the Inquisition has felt the strongest in moments of great victory and great loss, and Josephine’s heart aches for the presence of her dearest friend.

The announcement goes off without a hitch. The higher ups have known for days and the mixture of reactions among the inner circle was to be expected. Despite that, every one of them owes the Inquisitor a great debt, so they accept her decision and stand in supportive behind the advisors. The Inquisitor recites the speech Josephine has written- a good one, if she might flatter herself- and it hits all the beats of a well maintained Orlesian drum.

“We joined together many years ago to rid the world of Corypheus and his followers.” _Beat._

“When so many thought we would fail, you answered the call from all over Thedas. From Ferelden to Orlais, you joined the Inquisition because you believed in a greater good.” _Beat._

“The Inquisition has completed its final mission. I am proud of the work we have done, and I thank you for your service and your sacrifice.” _Beat._

The Inquisitor continues for a few minutes, delivering the lengthy speech, charismatic as ever. Josephine keeps her eyes fixed proudly on the Inquisitor, but all she can hear is the beating of the drum.

***

The Inquisition prepares to move on. Josephine is positively swamped, the work required to wind down an operation the size of the Inquisition seemed monumental and yet she has still underestimated it. She is overworked in a way she hasn’t felt since wartime, and her body seems to fight against her at every moment, unable to keep a meal down, desperate for one night of sound sleep. She chalks it up to stress and tries to move forward.

After several days of not being able to stomach any of her favorite meals, Josephine must admit to herself that something is likely amiss. Sitting primly in an ornate armchair in her office, she stares at the crackling fire as she considers the possibilities. Perhaps this is simply anxiety, a reaction to the cataclysmic changes running through the Inquisition. Maybe an illness is being passed through the keep and she is not the only one who struggles to keep a bite of bread down.

For a moment, she runs through a list of possibilities before allowing one she’s been keeping at bay for days to step into the light. When was her last moon? She simply cannot remember, and her hands clench around the embossed brocade of the armchair. Prospect and a fair bit of fear bubbles up in her chest before she abruptly stands, popping it and tempering her unruly feelings.

Rushing to her desk, Josephine pulls open the middle top drawer and retrieves her agenda, methodically thumbing through the pages, looking for the little red dot she puts on the first day each time. She turns page after page, going back almost three whole months until she finds it - a tiny pin prick of red at the top of the day’s schedule. Eyes wide, she sinks into her office chair.

 _What an interesting development,_ she thinks with a hint of mirth. She looks at her knuckles, the requisitions scattered on her desk, anywhere but the little red dot. Questions flood her mind, but she takes a deep breath and stills herself. First things first.

Quickly pulling a piece of her everyday stationary from it’s pile, she quickly pens a brief note requesting an appointment with Skyhold’s physician. She folds the note carefully, sealing it with cherry red wax. She fingers her personal stamp, but thinks better of it - if someone saw a letter with her seal being delivered to the physician, rumors would quickly spread. More likely, people would figure she was just doing her job, contacting the physician about supplies or the like. Still, best not to take the chance. Her foot taps incessantly against the solid wood of her desk. She impatiently watches the wax cool, undisturbed, before calling in a runner and sending it off to Skyhold’s infirmary.

With her task complete, the frenzy of her action is stilled. She slumps mildly in her chair, listening to the crackling of the fire and the gentle murmur of people lunching in the Great Hall. The satin of her shirt somehow feels heavier, the colors of the room brighter. She turns her eyes towards her belly and gently, thoughtfully, rests a palm on it. She takes a moment, the first moment she’s allowed herself, ever really, to envision a child and all they would bring.

A child!

A babe-in-arms with windswept raven hair welcoming ships as they sailed safely to harbor. A tow-headed cherub with long limbs and a sweet toothy smile toddling towards her. Doe eyes gazing up, wet and glossy over a skinned knee as Papa kisses it better. Josephine’s heart swells.

How bright a future this could be.

***

The physician refers her to the midwife, a rather underutilized role in Skyhold. There have been only a few babies born here, but each time, their parents quickly skirted them away from the unforgiving mountains and off to more temperate, familial climes.

The midwife is subtle, sends a note via runner arranging to meet Josephine in her quarters when most will be busy with the activities of the day. She shows up promptly with a friendly, almost mischievous look on her face. She speaks practically, with a thick North Ferelden accent and eyes lined by thin wire glasses. Josephine likes her immediately.

They discuss her symptoms; Josephine shows her the tiny red dots on her schedule. The midwife smiles with mirth, a warmth that truly reaches her eyes. “Well, love, I could do an examination on ‘ye, but I’ve known a lot of women in my life, and a wide lot of babes, too. I don’t have to lift your skirt to know you’re about a half year away from having a little Ambassador to the people. Or Commander, I s’pose.”

Josephine lets out a sharp laugh that takes her by surprise. A million thoughts flash through her mind. She realizes the midwife is watching her, still smiling. “I’m sorry, it’s not funny, this is quite serious.”

“It is funny!” The midwife’s grin grows. “You’re made of tough stuff. Don’t lose your nerve now, m’lady, the journey’s just begun.”

***

“Josephine.”

She glances up from the letter she is drafting to find Cullen in front of her desk, a questioning, concerned look on his face. “Are you alright? Your assistant told me you haven’t been able to eat properly for days. Do you need to see the physician?”

Putting her quill down and shuffling some papers to buy time as she thinks, she stands and offers him her hand. As a diplomat, she has broken delicate news to people many times over, but rarely has she had matters quite this life-changing to share on her own.

The garden is quiet, less occupied than it usually is this time of day. Only a few people mill around, mostly in the area by the chapel where Mother Giselle has been leading small services. She leads him to a worn wooden bench in the garden, under the oldest tree. Cullen swipes the orange and red leaves that have scattered on the bench onto the ground, making a space for them to sit. Late afternoon light streams through the trees and the sweet smell of elfroot from the Inquisitor’s herb garden lingers in the air. The autumn air is crisp, and it keeps her focused, on her toes.

Josephine sits with Cullen on the bench at first, holding his hand loosely, but quickly decides she can’t sit still. She paces up and down the path a few times before stopping square in front of him. It takes more effort than he’d care to admit, but Cullen patiently waits, willing himself to let her speak first, uncertain where this is all going.

Wringing perpetually ink-stained hands together, she launches nervously into what seems to Cullen like a well-rehearsed speech. “I have what is rather timely information based on our conversation the other night. I haven’t been feeling quite myself the last few weeks so I scheduled some time with Skyhold’s physician who referred me to the midwife and after some discussion we came to the same conclusion. This certainly will change some plans, but I very much intend to continue my work before and after, which I hope you can respect. There is just so much to be done! I know this is not quite what we’ve talked about, and I’ve hardly planned what to tell our families yet, but I do so hope it makes you happy. You will make a wonderful--”

“Josie,” Cullen interjects, slowly rising from his seat, “are you-?”

She smiles hesitantly, searching his eyes for reassurance, “I...am.”

For a moment, the world stands still as Cullen processes this information, what it means for them, their plans, their future. A wobbly smile breaks out across his face and she lets out the breath she didn’t realize she was holding. He surges off the bench towards Josephine, pulling her close and cradling her face in his large, gloved hand. The smile breaks into a grin as he bends down and kisses her firmly, exuberantly. All the tension drains from her body and she leans flush against him, the cold metal of his armor calming her nerves.

“So...you are pleased,” she asks, wanting to hear the answer out loud although she already knows.

”Pleased? I am-” He shakes his head, collecting himself. “I am _overjoyed._ ” He holds her tightly for another moment before taking her by the shoulders and moving back a half-step to gaze with astonishment at her belly. “This certainly changes the pace.”

“I know,” Josephine says, eyes wide. “So very much to do! I’ve already begun making lists. It’s come to the point where I have lists to keep track of my lists!”

***

Hand in hand, Josephine and Cullen share their happy news with the remaining members of the Inquisition’s inner circle. Since the announcement some weeks ago, individuals have begun their lonesome journeys onward. Only the Inquisitor, Varric, Cassandra, Dorian, and Iron Bull remain. At the Herald’s Rest, sleepier than it once was, they raise a glass and toast to the time they’ve shared. The sadness of parting tinges the sweetness of the news, but their friends are ecstatic about the newest small member of their ranks.

“We depart in three days' time,” Josephine shares, a bit reluctantly. “There is a caravan heading towards South Ferelden and we’d like to visit Honnleath and Denerim before we head to Antiva. We’ll miss you. All of you. Please come to Antiva for the wedding. And to visit the baby. And whenever you’d like.”

“It’s for the best,” Dorian posits, wrapped up in Iron Bull’s arms. “Can you imagine - a baby at Skyhold? Why the little thing would learn to throw a dagger before they learned to speak.” Cullen makes a face. “No, you simply must go to Antiva, I won’t hear of it.” Murmurs of affirmation and amusement round the table.

Varric climbs up on his chair, raising a hand to profess. “A toast! For the fine family-to-be.” The table heartily raises their glasses. In a sing-song tune, he proclaims, “The wonderful love of a beautiful maid, and the love of a staunch true man, and the love of a baby unafraid, have existed since life began. But the greatest love, the love of love, even greater than that of a mother, is the tender, passionate, infinite love of one drunken sod for another!”

The table turns raucous with laughter, drinks clink together. Iron Bull takes a turn and tells three of the filthiest toasts Josephine has ever heard, and the laughter that falls out of her is a balm for the soul.

Giving Cullen’s hand a light squeeze, Josephine stands, her growing belly popping up behind the table. “Ah Varric, I have one! An old Antivan toast for those out at sea.” She clears her throat, and smiles at Cullen, confident and conspiratorial. Raising her glass to her compatriots, she begins. “Some ships are wooden ships, but those ships may sink. The best ships are friendships, and to those ships, we drink.”

***

**Author's Note:**

> It has been close to 15 years since I've written any fanfic, but a combination of a quarantine DA:I replay and stumbling on klickitats' incredibly moving fic [ Love Song for the Admiral](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3605460?view_adult=true&view_full_work=true) inspired me to write again. It got me WAY on board the Josie/Cullen train, and then I saw there were only 52 fics for them. I read all of them and then, naturally, was compelled to make it 53. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it - I would love your feedback!


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